


it's an old wives' tale but don't close your eyes

by blastellanos



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10687920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/pseuds/blastellanos
Summary: “I don’t care what they said, ya ain’t staying alone tonight.”James doesn’t leave room for argument in his voice. José doesn’t seem particularly inclined to arguing anyways.





	it's an old wives' tale but don't close your eyes

A loss is rarely easy, even in April, it’s hard to wash off the grit of a tough game and think about what’ll happen in the next one. Usually, James takes losses hard and when he’s playing in it, he thinks of how he could have been better. Better at-bat, better framing, better calling, better intel on the batters to make the game run smoother. 

They’d almost gotten out of it-- he’d done it well enough, they were clinging to the lead with both hands, fingernails tight into the pine, until one could feel the splinters underneath their nails. James feels it like that, like icepicks in his nail bed. Like every word, every action, every breath caused physical pain.

And he wished it was just because of the loss. 

James, generally, prided himself on being team captain. On being stoic and serious, of not letting anything outwardly effect him. Not in the clubhouse, generally not on the field. (How come it seemed like the times he was always the most  _ heated _ , José was involved.)

This was no exception and he stood there behind the plate, frozen with numbness as the Rays celebrating thirty feet away, but José was still face first in the dirt. His hat gone, just dark hair in to the tan basepath, and white-shirted trainers surrounding him.

He doesn’t breathe again until José is back up on his knees. He looks dazed, staring out at nothing and then trying to explain to the trainers. James wants to go over to him, but he winds up by Frankie, instead, whose devastation was rolling off in palpable waves. 

Frankie’s speaking animated Spanish that James understands only a handful of words of -- one which he’s sure means  _ slut _ and he can’t begin to imagine the context of that. It’s odd enough, jarring enough, it calms him down until they’re filing off the field. James watches the shoulders of the trainers as they walk José into the clubhouse. 

There’s a general attitude of _ we’ll get them next time _ , avoid the sweep and keep building. Momentum is important, even in April. But James isn’t really thinking about it. He wishes he felt worse when he shrugs off Matt Boyd, who tries to engage him, and he hovers outside of the little medical room where José is being examined, not even bothering to change out of his gear. 

When he comes out, he’s dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and looks smaller than usual. His jaw is a little swollen, skin purpling already, and James towers over him still in all his pads and everything. 

“I’m taking you home,” James says, in a firm, stern voice. 

“I’m fine,” José says. James just shakes his head. 

“I don’t care what they said, ya ain’t staying alone tonight.” 

James doesn’t leave room for argument in his voice. José doesn’t seem particularly inclined to arguing anyways. 

“Sit tight, I gotta change.” 

James skips the shower, stripping quickly and throwing on just a pair of jeans and wearing his Captain America shirt. José giggles when he sees it, but refrains from making a comment, just lets James take him with one hand looped around his wrist, and leading him out towards where they can get a ride back to the hotel. 

If the Lyft driver thinks it is odd, or even notices it, or knows who they are, he doesn't say anything. James doesn't let his hand go either. He knows he should, but he focuses instead on the beat of José's heart beneath his fingertips. 

Of course, he never knows if it's normal. It always feels a little fast. And he can't ever tell if it's his fingers or José's skin that is what's clammy. He wishes he knew better. 

José is quiet during the ride and maybe that is for the best, considering James wouldn't know how to even articulate the large sprawling feeling he has in his chest right now. 

He can pinpoint it. Fear, worry, scared -- emotions that normally be could sublimate and feel strong for others, but in the moment made him want to dart away like a skittish deer. 

José seems largely unaffected, but his dark eyes look a little glassy, his expression still a little dazed. José had said he was fine, but James wasn't so sure about it. 

He's thinking, probably a concussion and definitely shouldn't be alone. Not that James was going to leave him alone in the first place. 

James couldn't quite imagine the situation where he would leave José to fend for himself.  It wasn't that he didn't think he could.  Just he's thinking concussion and that meant forcing José to stay sitting up and not sleeping.  He’s sure he’s read somewhere that someone doesn’t really have to stay awake if they have a concussion but it gave him an excuse. 

So while José is looking at something else, the lights out the windows flashing by, James sends a quick one-handed text to Jessica. 

_ looking after José for the night. see you in the morning. <3  _

He feels slimy doing it, but what is he going to do. It’s better he tells her half a truth and she doesn’t sit up all night worrying that he never came back to the hotel. James knows the team is going to be there, that anyone could be doing this, but he clings to this moment like a drowning man at a life preserver. 

Just once, he doesn’t have to be secret about it. Just once. And it’s not the same, it won’t ever be the same because he can’t and won’t give in like that, but it’s nice anyways. Nice in the way that makes his heart blossom painfully, like being shot with a beanbag in the chest, feeling the pain radiate outward, but this time just stuck under his ribs. 

( _ was that heartache? _ ) 

There’s a few players milling about when they get to the team hotel and James stands by almost idly, fingers almost linking with José’s as he assures Miggy and Victor he’s fine, jawing with them in rapid Spanish, saying something to make the two men laugh and Victor to clap him heartily on the shoulder. 

With Miggy and Victor moving away, James takes a plunge and wraps his fingers around José’s wrist again. Urging him gently towards the elevators. Making a clear path to avoid further conversation. He doesn’t want to get caught out here, it’s late, everyone should be asleep anyways but there’s always that bit of raucous anti-celebration wind-down after a loss. 

He takes them to José’s room; flips on the tiny bedside lamp and then slips out of the room to get ice from the machine down the hall. It melts against his fingertips as he shovels it into the little silver bucket and he hopes the water cleanses him and calms him down. 

But it doesn’t. 

José looks bad when he comes back. There’s dark shadows under his eyes and his jaw is a little more swollen. With his eyes closed, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. 

“Hey,” James snaps and watches José’s eyes fly open. “You might have a concussion, you’re not supposed to be sleeping.” 

“That’s not true,” José retorts.

“It’s an old wives’ tale, but don’t close your eyes,” James says. He perches on the edge of the bed and peels his shirt off to wrap the ice in. He presses it against José’s cheek and watches as he stares up at the ceiling, gaze distant. 

José goes to grab the makeshift ice pack.

“No,” James says, gentle, “please, let me take care of you.” 

They lapse into silence then, James feeling his fingers going numb, but he doesn’t move his hand even as his fingers start to stiffen up, and he feels the cloth going damp against his palm where he’s got most of the pressure. 

“‘S cold,” José finally says, an indeterminate time later and James pulls it away. The bruise is already angry looking, puffy, and James has this sudden desire to find Miller and take a swing at him. Part of the game, accidents happen, but he can’t help but feel like he should go and throw down.

José’s a little firecracker, though and James doubt he’d be super impressed with James’ macho ‘I have to protect my boyf-’-- James cuts the thought off before it fully manifests. That isn’t what José is. This isn’t what this was. But there’s still that feeling.

This feeling. It makes him feel like that time, back in college, when he and Jess had gotten some Fake IDs and were having some drinks with a couple other members of the baseball team, and some older looking boys had started getting a little too handsy with the girls they’d been with. James hadn’t ever been in anything beyond a little playground scuffle before that, but he’d gone and defended Jess’ honor. 

It’s sort of what he wants to do here, for José. 

Jess had appreciated it; he had a feeling José would not. 

(But maybe he would, maybe he wanted to be protected. James had something of a white knight complex, he puffed up-- a little bit ego stroke a little bit prideful that people called him Captain America. That was something he took seriously. Like everything in his life, he took seriously.)

“How’re you feeling?” José asks him. The question startles James and he turns back to José, whose now sitting up a little more, dark eyes still a little glassy, but looking more alert and focused. There’s dampness on his cheek still, one side of his hair sticking up where he’d been laying on it.

“How am I feeling?” James repeats, incredulous. 

José nods a little. 

“I’m okay.” James’ tone is cautious.

“That’s good.” 

The air conditioning kicks on and it’s low hum is the only noise in the room for a moment. And James breathes in the artificial air, and picks at the denim on his jeans, while he tries to wiggle feeling back into his fingers. 

“ _ Lindo _ ,” José says, his voice a little soft, and James looks at him, used to the little pet name now. He's meeting his gaze now, dark eyes a little wide. And maybe in some under current there was some fear from José too. Like it could have been worse. 

James moves a little bit closer then José calls him that and it isn't long before José's slim arms around his neck and their mouths are pressed together. He's not sure what to think, whenever José starts things. Not that José doesn't often, or usually, but. 

“ _ Te necesito,” _ José's voice is little more than a quiet whisper against James mouth. And he never asked exactly what it meant, but James wasn't born yesterday and he's figured out from the context what it means. So gently, he puts his hands on José's biceps and shifts him, laying him back down. 

“Yeah,” James says, and he shifts, presses his thigh between José's legs and feels him pressing there, already half hard. James can't ever say no. Not that he ever wanted to. 

He wish he was stronger and did want to, but José made him feel soft. Made him pliable. Made him vulnerable. Always giving in. 

He didn't mind though. He kisses José, slow and soft and gentle-- both of them with their eyes open. He wants to watch as the pink steals across José's cheeks. Watch his dark eyes get darker, watch the way his lips parted slightly until they were open all the way, and his measured breaths turned into desperate, rough gasps. 

It all unfolds. It all unfolds for him, as José's hips buck up just a little, and he feels José rubbing against his thigh. His jeans are in the way, José's boxers are in the way, it's too much clothing. 

James makes quick work of them. Stripping has always been perfunctory but mandatory. If he was doing this, he wanted it done right. He wanted to see, to memorize, to touch all the inches of skin he could. 

José was like the night sky, he tried to take him all in but he just couldn't. Stretching out before him and forever. They're both a little scuffed up from the game and he watches as José's chest rises and falls as quick as a hummingbird’s. 

As though he's nervous. 

As though this hasn't happened times before. 

James steadies José with a hand pressed over his heart. He watches as he struggles to catch his breath. 

James slides between José's legs, puts big hands against his strong thighs and spreads them open. James eyes close halfway, but José's are still wide open. But James puts his hands on the pillow besides José's head and presses against him, slotting their hips together. 

It's a little dry, but it isn't long before José's legs are wrapping around his waist, feet hooked against the small of his back and James had his forehead pressed against José's cheek. 

José never speaks English here. And James wish he understood. Wishes he knew José more. That the things he said weren't just like music to him -- pretty sounds that lacked in meaning. He wants, sometimes, for José to teach him and has dreamed of it before, with José showing him and learning. (Not enough time.) 

It's messy. Feels like high school, rutting against José like he's a horny teenager in the back of his dad's Buick. The intensity just like that too, like the fumbling first time, entering into a world of wonder.

Like growing up.

God, he didn't know why he was like this with José. But it always felt so much better. He didn't want to be too -- whatever -- but sometimes the intensity made his eyes wet and his chest clench so tight he was almost shaking. 

All at once, James knows that it isn't quite enough. That the rubbing himself like this wasn't going to fulfill what he needed. He needed something more solid. 

He usually wanted it differently. But tonight. God tonight he needed that reassurance. So he slides himself more firmly against José and kisses the shell of his ear. 

And he wants to make it better. Say it better. Make everything sound less vulgar than it is. James doesn't know how to dress it up in flowery language though. At least not without connotations that he can't be making right now. 

He presses his teeth against José's ear lobe, until he hears the quick pained breath. And then he pulls back just a tiny bit. 

“Fuck me, please,” James says. And he hates the little waver in his voice as he says it. He hates the way that José stills underneath him. They haven't done it like this. 

James has always been reticent. But he needs, now. Needs to feel it. Needs José to take  _ him _ . Needs to be the one filled and consumed. It’s such an odd, sudden feeling. The only way for José to verify that he’s safe and that he’s sound. He needs this. He hates that he needs it. Hates more that he wants it. José is suddenly looking at him, the flush gone from his cheeks and his mouth still open and his breathing suddenly steady and slow. 

James feels like he’s shaking like a leaf during the windy season, clinging to the strength of it’s tree with all it’s might, but inevitably knowing that it’s minutes are numbered. 

“Okay,” José says after a moment. He feels himself disconnect, “ _ Cualquier cosa por ti, lindo _ .” José mumbles to him. It happens fast; faster than he’s expecting. One minute, he’s looking down at José and the next, he’s on his back looking up at the ceiling while José balances precariously above him. 

“ _ ¿Está seguro? _ ” José says and James just nods. He doesn’t understand, just nods and nods and keeps doing it, like it’ll shake off all his nerves as José hooks one of James’ heavy legs over his shoulder and moves in closer. 

They’re usually prepared --  _ boy scout motto _ \-- and it’s no different this time. James is nervous, but ready, as he hears José rustling around with one hand in some bag beside the bed and the other tracing patterns across his inner thigh, with gentle fingertips and just an edge of nails. 

James is so nervous he feels like he may have a heart attack. But he trusts José and he needs this. He can wish he didn’t all he wanted, but at the end of the day this is all that’s going to soothe him. It’s all that’s going to make him feel like--

Whatever he’s trying to feel. 

The lube is cold and José’s finger is thick, rubbing, making him slicked up and then pressing in. James squeezes his eyes shut. 

He forces them open. He wants to watch. He has to. He notices how his entire body was tense, though, the muscles in his legs seized up, his arms aching with it, fingers in the duvet cover, twisting and clutching. It all seems to happen so fast from there. José’s efficient, pressing him open, fingers curling just right.

And James is straining, muscles quivering, skin prickling with sweat-- hair sticking to his skin, breathing getting less and less steady. His knuckles are white and hurt again, he’s gripping so tightly, and his whole world is reduced to the feel of José’s fingers opening him up wide. 

There’s pain and a rush of pleasure and he’s not sure if the pain is even real besides a low level of guilty manifestation. And it’s swept away as he looks at José. He looks more focused than he has the rest of the night. Maybe because his eyes were blown so wide, or maybe because sometimes the way he looked at James makes him uncomfortable. But this is a good kind of discomfort. For a value of the expression. For the way that it never made him shy away, rather face this head on. 

He feels José’s mouth press against the side of his knee. Watches his face in profile, lips pressed to his own pale skin, sweat beading against his forehead, dripping a little down his cheeks, dark hair getting clingy, shoulder dipped under the weight of James’s leg. 

“I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready, José, please.” James knows that can’t be his voice. It’s too pitchy, too whiny, to needy. There’s no way it’s him. Except it is. This is happening. This is happening and he wants it so bad he’s aching for it. 

José draws his hand back and moves closer and leans in to fit his mouth over James’s as he slides in. José swallows the noise that James makes, which is good, because it makes him feel less ridiculous that way. But god it’s. 

The words leave him.

Even mentally, it just breaks down like a wall, crashed in and dust and rubble. Coherency gone. He wants to babble. Instead, he clutches at José’s short hair and feels his toes curl as José keeps sliding in deeper and deeper. He’s careful, slow, and James is trying not to let the pathetic whimpery noises come through his mouth but they do. 

When José pulls back, he’s left without the muffling, so everything is out there. It’s-- it’s indescribable. For a moment, there’s just hot-- just hot and the feel of smooth skin and the scrape of José’s jaw against his, and a tight grip against his ankle and being opened up more. José’s fingers weren’t nearly as impressive as his dick, although James knew that beforehand. 

James pulls José back down to kiss him more. He has to. He has to release it somehow-- and he digs his nails into the back of José’s neck, and bites his lower lip, and feels like he’s being burned alive. 

José’s murmuring to him in quiet, encouraging Spanish. Urging him on, he can tell by the tone, he wishes he knew what José wanted though. James wishes. Then he can’t even do that anymore because he’s adjusted enough, loose and relaxed and José’s sliding into him, then out. Slow, smooth, steady rock of hips. 

God it’s fucking delicious and lights sparks all across James’s skin.

“How do you not have a million kids?” James asks. It’s breathless and he can’t believe he’s said it out loud. But if James was José’s wife, well. The thought makes his skin burn even more feverishly. Which is only increased by José’s low and rough laughter and the shake of his head, like he thought James was making a joke. 

But he isn’t. He’s not because it’s making him see stars right behind his eyelids and he feels it lighting across his veins. And it’s not long at all before James’s back is arched, fingers digging into José’s biceps, writhing back against him as José is relentless. 

It’s a powerful sort of movement, the way José gives to him. Slide out and then in, angled just right to where James had  _ yelled _ the first time José’s dick had nudged against his prostate. He’d managed to quell his noise, biting his lower lip until it’s swollen and bloody and he almost tastes a faint scent of copper. 

And then José’s kissing him again, eyes wide open, almost lazily, wet-- he feels José’s tongue trace along his lower lip, feels his teeth dig into the soft flesh of James’s lower lip. He’s gonna leave bruises on José, he knows he is. He’s going to feel this tomorrow. He can already imagine the pain he’ll be in, crouched down behind home plate, but he doesn’t care. 

He shouts against José’s mouth as he comes,harder than he has before, as José slips his fingers around him between their bodies and jerks him off as best he can to the rhythm of his hips. And José’s panting to him in Spanish. 

“ _ Estoy enamorado de ti.”  _ Over and over and James-- well. 

As usual, wonders.

He feels the stuttering, lost rhythm, of José’s hips as he comes and his words trail off into just a groan of excitement and his hips twitch and he shudders as he comes. James lays there near boneless, aching a little, as José stays atop him. They lay like that, nothing but the sounds of heavy breathing and the air conditioner, for several long moments. Until James finally has the presence of mind to roll José off of him to get them cleaned up.

His legs feel wobbly as he tries to walk it hurts. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” James cautions him and then slips into the bathroom. He takes a moment to splash water on his face and he tries to form the words José had said in his head, over and over, so he could ask someone tomorrow what it meant.

For now, he dampens a cloth with warm water, and steels himself, before exiting the bathroom. 


End file.
